Aftersex
by costellos
Summary: 'You do know this is just casual, right? I'm not into girls, I just like my pussy licked. And you like to lick it. That's our dynamic, no more, no less.'
1. Chapter 1

**Aftersex**

_'You do know this is just casual, right? I'm not into girls, I just like my pussy licked. And you like to lick it. That's our dynamic, no more, no less.'_

_AU: Santana and Quinn are college roommates with a bizarre sexual dynamic. Inspired by/an elaboration upon Nikki and Kat's story in the 2007 film After Sex._

* * *

Sunlight streams through the crack in the curtains, casting a straight line of brightness over a chintzy colourful rug and directly hitting Quinn Fabray's face as she licks her lips and smiles. She pushes herself up on to her elbows and looks straight at the woman lying half underneath her, her dark eyes rolling in her head with desire and her fingers untangling themselves slowly from Quinn's blonde hair.

Santana Lopez leans back, breathing heavily. Throwing an arm out to her bedside table, taking a clove cigarette from the pack sitting on top of her books, smirking as Quinn climbs up her frame and rests her head on her stomach, hands lazily tracing up and down her legs. She clears her throat. "Well, that was nice," she says, her voice low and husky.

Quinn kicks her feet into the air and runs her hand through her hair, grinning and turning her face to the light coming in from their dusty window. "Oh, yeah? Want to do it again?" She cocks her head to the side, dragging her nails a little harder into the smooth skin of Santana's thigh.

She feels Santana shift beneath her and pulls back, biting her lip; knowing she can't push it too far, like always. She moves her hands up the body of the Latina beneath her, placing her palms flat on the muscles of Santana's abs. She does it calmly; she likes to think, and she finds Santana's eyes with a wide smile spreading across her face.

"No, no. I just want to marinade in this for a little while," Santana replies, flicking her lighter and exhaling with a sigh. Quinn just stares searchingly until Santana blinks their eye contact away, directing her gaze to a point in the corner of the room. "You do know this is just casual, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I do. Of course." Quinn lowers her gaze, her smile faltering for a few fleeting seconds.

"Good," Santana taps the ash of her cigarette on to the ashtray balanced behind her. "I just don't want you freaking out on me, catching feelings and shit. I'm not into girls, I just like my pussy licked. And you like to lick it. That's our dynamic, no more, no less."

"Right, yeah. I know," Quinn rolls away from Santana so they lie parallel, staring up at the ceiling.

"Look, Q… I just want you to get it into your head, that's all."

"No, I know. It's understood, no feelings whatsoever." She pauses. "I'm not, you know – solely into girls either."

Santana rolls her eyes and scoffs, and Quinn subconsciously inches away from her in bed. "Yeah, right. Q, I don't care if you're gay or not. It's whatever. You can do whatever you want, I just don't want you thinking this –" she gestures around her, "is a thing, you know? Like, love. I don't have the patience for that kind of bullshit from anyone, man or woman."

Quinn swallows. "Okay," she says, and the word leaves her lips sharply. Sharper than she intended. "I don't see how having had a girlfriend makes me _gay, _like, I've had boyfriends before, too. It's just different." She glances at the silver watch on her wrist and sighs. "Class starts in like, half an hour. We should get ready."

Santana pops out six perfect smoke rings, smirking as Quinn pushes her finger through each one of them, winking a hazel eye suggestively. "You know, I've never had an actual boyfriend. It's whatever, it doesn't bother me. Relationships are fucked up and stupid, and I just don't get the point, you know?" Quinn climbs over Santana and out of bed, pushing aside the room separator and padding into the kitchen.

She raises an eyebrow before responding. "Only one night stands? Damn, Santana. Like yeah, sure, I've had one nighters with woman but I've had four proper boyfriends and one proper girlfriend, and they all fucked me over in one way or another, but I kept –"

"Going back, yeah. Because you're a total glutton for punishment," Santana interrupts, fiddling with her fingers and the cigarette in her left hand, staring steadfastly at a spot on the ceiling.

"Mmm. Do you want a cup of tea?" Quinn ignores Santana's remark and yawns, flicking the kettle on and picking at a box of teabags.

"Why are you drinking that shit? You're so dysfunctional. I'll have a black coffee, Q."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm the dysfunctional one? You've just had an orgasm and you're still firing at one hundred percent bitch," she says conversationally, measuring out two shots of coffee in the expensive machine Santana's father bought for them. He had financed a lot of the expensive electrical goods in their apartment, and Santana had always looked upon them with some sort of unknown resentment. Quinn knew her parents were still together, but as far as she could tell, they were not happy. Quinn's own mother's influence had come in the various multicoloured rugs and totem poles and statuettes - all the stuff Santana would refer to as 'hippy bullshit' but really secretly like, and would remind Quinn of home and her lovely, kooky single mom. "Do you have that sociology essay done?"

"Maybe not finished, but I've done some of it. I don't have the time –"

"In between getting completely wasted and fucking every boy on campus? And me?" she whispers the last two words, for fear she's already overstepped the line.

She has, and hurt flashes momentarily across Santana's face. She wordlessly stubs out her cigarette and swings her legs over the side of the bed, kicking them back and forth, her eyes fixed to a point on the ground. She picks up her flared denim skirt and pulls it on, unresponsive.

"Sorry, San…" Quinn laments, regretting what she's just said. She knows it's probably not what Santana needs, especially not from her.

"What, did you say something?" Santana makes her way over to the kitchen counter, grabbing a cereal bar from the cupboard and throwing one at Quinn, moving closer and closer to the blonde's back; until she's so close Quinn can feel her breath on the back of her own neck. The tension is palpable, and Quinn curses Santana for being so amazingly able to manipulate so many situations; and curses her habit of getting incredibly defensive the second anyone brought up anything she didn't like. "Sorry. I was just distracted by your ass in those tiny… little… shorts."

Quinn giggles, turning round and gently pushing Santana away. "Dick. Can you do me a sandwich? And not with those doorstep sized slabs of cheese again, I didn't think it was funny -"

"We don't have time. We've only got like, ten minutes, and we have to get to class, you said it yourself." Santana pinches Quinn's waist and her hair brushes Quinn's bare arm; and the blonde almost drops the kettle. "Well, you have to get to class."

Quinn narrows her eyes, and the coffee machine beeps. "What are you doing then? Get your coffee."

"I," Santana pauses dramatically, taking her mug away from the machine with a flourish, "am going to go to the library and eyefuck the guy behind the desk under the pretence of finishing my sociology essay. And you," she pauses again, placing her drink on the counter and sliding over to Quinn so she's holding her hips from behind, "are going to take a shitload of notes. And we, we are going to graduate and be the editors of the very greatest magazine for sarcastic disillusioned Americans the world has ever seen."

Quinn pats the hands that lie teasingly on her hips, smiling. "Oh. Well, I can see you've thought that through."

"Mmm," Santana whispers in her ear, before grabbing her coffee and stomping off to her bedside table, which itself is completely piled high with books. She extracts the correct textbook and Quinn punches the radio on, filling their shitty little apartment with some forgettable pop song; just watching her roommate flit around and pack a battered rucksack full of books and pens and her laptop, standing and drinking her tea.

"Wow. How many essays are you behind on, exactly?" she jibes, her tone both effortlessly condescending and moderately joking.

Santana groans and growls at the same time. "Don't even go there, Quinn. Too fucking many."

"You should really –"

"You're not my fucking mother, Q! You're my roommate!"

Quinn raises an eyebrow, sceptically. "Roommate. Is that all?"

Her question has the predicted effect, and she chuckles as Santana takes a deep, rattled breath. "You're my best friend." Her voice changes, from her own snappy manner to a poor imitation of Quinn's slower, west-coast drawl. "'And best friends are supposed to care about one another, so don't be a little bitch about me trying to help you out –'"

"Ay, enough!" Quinn raises her hands in surrender, laughing at Santana's scowl. "Grow up!"

Santana throws another couple of missiles at Quinn – her trainers and a hoodie – and bends down to tug her own beaten-up Nikes on. Quinn's eyes widen. "Stop leering," she says with a giggle, and Quinn immediately feels her face redden; even though she should be used to little prods and snarks like this from the Latina, even though it's not like it's untrue.

"Please. You're asking for it –"

"Would you not utilise an ass like this?" She grabs her own ass and wiggles it theatrically as she pulls an old high school sweater on over her white tank top.

Quinn grins despite herself and blow Santana a kiss as she stands in the doorway, grinding against the frame. "Slut! Get out, and save me a seat in the goddamn library because I have a poem analysis to finish," she calls, and Santana catches the kiss and spins on her heel, slamming the cheap wooden door.

Finishing her cup of tea, Quinn shrugs her own hoodie on over her shoulders and loads the mug into the dishwasher, pausing for a second in thought. She adjusts the lying figure of Buddha that adorns their windowsill and absentmindedly flicks on their lava lamp.

The DJ whose voice blares from the speakers asks her an open ended question, not giving her the time to reply. "So, how are y'all doing this beautiful bright sunny Wednesday morning? It's ten in the morning and 73 degrees out there, so –"

"Fucked," Quinn says to the DJ, and to herself. "Fucked."

* * *

"So, what does it taste like, anyway? Chicken? Potatoes?" Santana slumps down beside Quinn on the floor of the library where they're working, surrounded by books and lame band posters, banging down two cups of coffee and a cookie for them to share. She's wearing her glasses, and Quinn can't stop herself from biting her lips when she looks up. "Pussy," she clarifies when Quinn doesn't reply.

"Jesus. Do you always have to be so abrasive… crude, like?" Quinn winces at Santana's wording and turns the page of her psychology paper, avoiding the question.

Santana flips her off with a flick of her wrist. "Please, Q. You know me. I'm blunt; I call things as they are."

"Really?" Quinn raises her left eyebrow, and Santana glances away for a split second, her eyes lowering very slightly.

"Yeah," the Latina continues, reminding herself not to tap her foot like she always does when something sets her off. "And I'm just asking you what it tastes like. I don't see the problem."

"Uh, you know San; I'd rather not. What are we doing for dinner tonight?" Quinn fixes her gaze on her essay plan, doodling swirls in her margins; acutely aware with every passing second of Santana's leg, hot against her own.

"I bought some frozen pizza from the store." Quinn opens her mouth to interrupt and Santana presses her middle finger against Quinn's parting lips, quieting her immediately. "And before you say it, no. I didn't get the one with the hidden pepperoni, I've totally become accustomed to the fact you're a vegetable –"

"I'm a vegetarian –"

"And all that feng shui bullshit you hang up around the house, I'm totally okay with it. And I am genuinely sorry about the time you ate the pizza with the sausage without realising what you were doing. I can't help the fact that I like meat –"

"Right, whatever," Quinn stops Santana's tirade with a snap and a prod to the ribs. "I'm just happy you've stopped bringing me bacon in the morning."

Santana snorts. "Please, Q. That was never for you. That was a way of making and eating two without having to deal with the guilt that comes with being a greedy piece of shit," she pauses, and Quinn nods. "Does it taste like bacon?"

"Santana –"

"Hey, I'm not being vulgar! I just eat a lot of bacon. Does it taste like bacon?" she repeats, and Quinn comes to the conclusion she's not going to give up any time soon.

Begrudgingly, she responds. "Everyone tastes different." She slams her textbook shut.

"Is that all I'm getting?" Santana says nonchalantly, tapping out a few words of a sociology essay. It's about proxemics, and she's making the point of how physical closeness inevitably is a sign of/leads to emotional closeness. She swallows.

"Uh… You really want to know?"

"Yeah," Santana says abruptly, pushing away her laptop and turning to face Quinn completely.

Quinn motions to open her legs and derives a little satisfaction from the horrified look that crosses Santana's face. "You want to know?" she says again, glancing sideways at the girl sat beside her, smirking.

"No – no, okay, I don't want to know that bad," Santana rushes out, and Quinn grins, closing her legs. "I'm just curious, that's all."

Oh," Quinn says, her tone still chiding and teasing Santana. She looks pointedly away, reopening her textbook and picking up her pen. "Oh, well. It tastes good. I like it."

Santana stares at her with a mock amazement. "Really? Q, I know you like it. I mean like, what does it taste like? Liken it to a food. Does it taste like bacon? Lettuce? Pizza?"

Quinn slams her book shut again and glares at Santana, who's leaning over her with a big stupid smile painted on her face. "It depends, okay! It depends." She takes a deep breath, and Santana waits with wide eyes for her to continue. "It's always different. And I guess… a little salty." She smiles, her eyes crinkling and warming at Santana's dopey stare.

"Oh." Santana seems satisfied, and blinks a couple of times before picking at her fingernails. "What do I taste like?" she asks, almost shyly.

Quinn hides her shock at the question surprisingly well. It's not like Santana to be concerned about stuff like that; she exudes, oozes confidence like boiling water exudes steam. She lets the silence envelope them for a few seconds, before dipping her head to within inches of Santana's. "You… honestly want to know what you taste like?" she murmurs, watching Santana curl her hands into balls and hearing her purr and take a deep breath.

Santana's body moves up against Quinn's of its own accord, and she whispers right back. "Well, I asked, didn't I?"

There's nobody in their little corner of the library, just books and scuffed carpet and the low hum of Santana's laptop.

"Okay," Quinn replies, her voice even. "Lean back," she commands, and Santana relaxes against the wall of texts behind her, her gaze anchored to Quinn; whose own heart quickens at the inherent trust pouring from Santana's beautiful huge brown eyes. "Open your legs," she says simply, and Santana complies with a sharp intake of breath as Quinn wastes no time in grazing her fingers along Santana's inner thigh.

Santana bangs her head gently against the spine of the book behind her head, her breath hitching and gasping once more as Quinn slides her own leg over Santana's and pushes her fingers inside of her, thrusting deeper and deeper and feeling Santana growing wetter and wetter with each touch. Her nose pressed against Santana's sharp cheekbone, she pulls her hand from underneath the Latina's skirt and brings it to her mouth, all the while staring into Santana's eyes. They've entered that familiar darkened state and Quinn feels a pull in her stomach; all she wants is to kiss her and be kissed right back. But she knows she can't have that, so whatever she can have will do.

She sucks her fingers and tips Santana's jaw back with her left hand, cocking her ear up to Quinn's stained red lips. "You taste… so… fucking… good…" she hums, and Santana presses against her in the few seconds after their closeness, her eyes slowly shutting and her breathing still slightly ragged.

A minute passes, and Santana pulls away with a cough. "Uh. So,"

Quinn clears her own throat. The two of them are smiling, though, and Santana is tapping a light tune on Quinn's exposed thigh. "Uh, yeah." She opens her textbook once more and falls to a page examining the life and works of Freud.

Santana squints over with a smirk and their eyes meet in understanding, Quinn suppressing a giggle. "What the fuck would Freud have to say about us?" she says bluntly, and Quinn laughs out loud.

"God knows, San. God knows."


	2. Chapter 2

**Aftersex**

_'You do know this is just casual, right? I'm not into girls, I just like my pussy licked. And you like to lick it. That's our dynamic, no more, no less.'_

_AU: Santana and Quinn are college roommates with a bizarre sexual dynamic. Inspired by/an elaboration upon Nikki and Kat's story in the 2007 film After Sex._

* * *

"Fuuuuuck – fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck –" Quinn shakes and grips Santana's hair with one hand, and the bunched up sheet with another. "There – there – there – there –"

Santana pulls her slim frame up with a slap of skin against skin and growls into Quinn's ear, thrusting her hand inside Quinn and her tongue down her throat. Quinn mumbles in surprise, her hands flying up to Santana's smooth back and holding her body over her own. "Shut up," Santana says, her voice low and guttural, and Quinn submits to the wild look in her darkening eyes. Her head bangs against the headboard with every thrust she makes up to Santana's fingers, her inner pressure building; assisted by Santana's teeth on her neck, and Santana's hair splaying around her chest, and Santana's hot breath on her pale skin, and Santana's hand moving deftly up and down and all around, hitting spots Quinn never thought existed.

Santana bites down on Quinn's neck, her eyes still crazy and her movements frantic; and Quinn trembles as she lets go and Santana rolls away from her, breathing heavily.

Quinn can only lie in some sort of haze, of euphoria and confusion and passion; and Santana trails her hand down Quinn's arm, taking her hand. The gesture is strangely intimate, their hands entwined and their bodies side by side, chests rising and falling in perfect synchronicity. She closes her eyes with a sigh, and Quinn looks over at her with curiosity. She pulls the bedcover over the two of them, and Santana relaxes. It's the middle of the night, about a month after their library conversation; and Santana had come home an hour ago and almost dove on top of Quinn's drowsy form and kissed her – really kissed her – for the first time ever.

The alarm clock flashes bright blue at midnight like it does every night, and Santana cracks open her eyelid and stares at it for a few seconds before deciding to clamber over Quinn's still body and sneak out to her own bed. She could deal with this in the morning, over coffee and bacon.

Quinn tugs on her hand and she freezes, stuck lingering over the blonde's chest as she crouches in an attempt to get away from the bed and the woman who lay in it.

"Where do you think you're going?" Quinn asks, her tone making it unclear whether she's icy or warm. Impossible to figure out.

"Uh, back to my own bed?" Santana tries, but another tug from Quinn forces her to flop back down into her previous position.

Quinn pauses. "So, we're just not going to talk about this?" she says, fighting to keep her voice calm and even.

"Talk about what?"

"Don't be stupid, San. You've never, like – gone –"

"Down on you before? Touched you before? Yeah, I know." Santana draws in a deep breath and lets it out. Quinn detects the slightest hint of a shake in the exhale, and opens her mouth to comment before Santana beats her to it. "And I'm still not a lesbo, but I just wanted to, tonight."

Quinn reels with the admission and the insult all at once, and turns to face Santana in the dark. "Why?" she says gently, probing Santana. Her state is a bittersweet mix of sadness and happiness and turbulence, mingled with regret and unwanted clarity; Quinn knows it as well as anyone.

When she finally answers, her voice is smaller than it is usually; but still bigger and more assured than most. "I had a dream about it, a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh. I get it," Quinn nods, finding Santana's eyes in the darkness, trying to tell her it's okay to carry on. Trying to ask her 'was it me?', but knowing she can't because Santana would probably up and leave the apartment altogether.

"And I tried to go out and have a good time tonight, and I was in the bathroom with some guy at that club you hate, and I just couldn't stop thinking about this dream. He had me up against the wall and I almost burst into tears, you know how I get when I'm drunk… because, it just wasn't right. It wasn't right," she repeats, her voice cracking, a small tear shining on her left cheek.

Quinn has never, ever seen Santana cry. Not even close, not even when they were watching the Notebook, not even when they saw a man kill himself in the middle of their shopping centre, not even when she was waving away her best friend Sam at the airport bound for Afghanistan. She didn't know what to say. "San…"

"No, Q. It's fine, don't think you have to come up with some next comforting bullshit to try and make me feel better about myself. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but it'll work itself out soon, right?"

"Right," Quinn affirms, hoping her voice is strong enough to mask the fact she knows it's not the truth. She knows there's no point saying anything else.

"Right," Santana says again, burrowing her face into the pillow in an attempt to wipe away her stray tear. "Anyway. Was I any good?"

"Fucking brilliant, San," Quinn says lightly, giggling. "One of the best I've ever had. It makes me wonder who you've practised on and answers brilliantly why you spend so much time in the bathroom."

Santana gasps in mock offence, her mouth dropping open and the corners of her lips twitching into a grin. "How dare you, Quinn Fabray. How very dare you!"

"You know it's true," she rubs her fingers against Santana's, smiling into the darkness. "How can I ever look at these fingers in the same way again?"

"Don't make me slap you up –"

"That would be hot." Quinn grins; glad the conversation has fallen into territory they're both comfortable with.

"Quinn, shut up," Santana whines, leaning over and pinching Quinn's cheek. "I've just poured as much of my heart there is left out to you, and you're being a cow."

Quinn laughs, licking Santana's offending pinching finger and thumb, watching her recoil with delight. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Don't go to bed, mad at me…."

Santana doesn't sing along, but swallows and starts fiddling with her hands.

"What?" Quinn asks abruptly, vaguely annoyed her song hasn't been continued. They sing together all the goddamn time; just another thing the two of them keep under their hats.

"Q, can I sleep here tonight?" Santana stumbles over the question, looking deliberately away from Quinn's piercing hazel-eyed stare.

"Of course," she replies – simply, lightly, and Santana pulls the bedcover gratefully over the two of them and Quinn pulls her shorts up and her top down so she too is covered completely.

They both pretend that Quinn didn't wrap her arms around Santana as she cried in the small hours of the morning and they both elect not to talk about it the next morning over breakfast; because really, isn't it easier that way?

* * *

"Whatcha doing?"

Santana leans obnoxiously over the desk the two of them share in the north library, batting her eyes and smiling because she knows it irritates Quinn when she's trying to concentrate. It's a week after that night when Santana came home drunk and upset and confused, and they've not been able to hold a serious conversation since.

"Working, Santana," she snaps, giving Santana a death stare. "Do you know what that is?"

Santana leans back on her chair and kicks Quinn under the table, a stupid grin painted on her face as she swings back and forth. "Yes, Quinn. I know what it is, that's why I'm here. And I know I don't want to be doing any of it…" she replies in a sing-song voice, giggling when Quinn sticks up her middle finger by way of a response.

She picks up her pen and starts doodling over a book she's supposed to be studying for English, and Quinn sighs and opens her laptop.

"Hey. Hey, Quinn. Hey. Whatcha doing?" Santana says again after a few minutes, kicking Quinn until she retaliates.

"I'm writing an email," she huffs, glaring at the brunette across the table.

"An email? Who uses email?" Santana replies completely incredulously, her eyes widening to boot.

"Yes, Santana. An email."

Santana brings all four of her chair legs to the ground with a thump, and attempts to sneak a glance at Quinn's bright screen.

"Santana, stop!"

"Ah, so it's Rachel, again. Ex-girlfriend Rachel? New York Rachel? Rachel who was gay in high school but then sort of wasn't? Rachel who fucked you over? Singing Rachel?"

Quinn blinks, and Santana removes her black framed glasses. "The very same."

"Q, what are you doing?"

Quinn blinks once more in reproach, furrowing her brows. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"And what would you know?" Quinn snorts derisively, harshly.

Santana leans her head on her left hand, looking a little hurt. "Wow, that one cut me deep. Q, I'm only trying to –"

"Yeah, I know. But don't, okay? We were best friends before we were together. And she helped me so much, like really helped me…" Quinn trails off, somewhat intentionally vague.

"What's she doing, anyway? I'm still way pissed off I've never got to meet her. You're totally my homegirl, and she should know best that I'd kick her ass," she pauses, drinking in Quinn's gentle, grateful giggle. "Helped you with what?" she inquires, narrowing her eyes.

"She's still at NYADA, still singing and dancing and making merry with all her artist friends. Getting morning coffees and running in Central Park with her wonderfully gay roommate with the hair gel and dating some next dancer from her college show. It all sounds delightful –"

"Q, you're not still hung up on her, are you?"

Quinn shakes her head emphatically. "No, no, I'm not. She was just a bitch to me, and I said I'd stay friends after she shattered my poor little heart but it's such a lot of fucking effort to pretend I give one about the acoustics of her goddamn warehouse-conversion apartment."

Santana smacks her lips, approving of Quinn's conviction. "That's fair enough. Just keep her satisfied with empty words and never arrange to meet up with her, ever again."

Quinn laughs, tapping away at her keyboard. "No, no. I'm sure she'll get over it, she's pretty much talked about her New York Dream since we were eleven, so it's only natural she's going on a bit."

"A bit? We've been at college for like, over six months…" Santana raises her eyebrows, trying to hide as she counts on her fingers.

"It's been nine months –"

"That just makes her even more ridiculous." Quinn smiles at this, shrugging her shoulders. She doesn't want to badmouth Rachel, but it just feels so good to mock her like she's never been able to. "What do you owe her, anyway?"

Quinn grunts. "You what?"

"Like, why are you bothering? How did she help you?"

Quinn crosses and uncrosses her legs. "Oh, you know. Just with the whole bisexual, having a girlfriend… thing?" She waves her hands in the air, frustrated with her lack of articulation. Santana nods, her eyes trained straight on Quinn's. "Like, she was raised with two dads. She made me sort of realise that it was okay to have a girlfriend just as much as it was okay to have a girlfriend… and she was there when I told my mom, like literally right there. She sort of – well, if it hadn't have been for her, I'd probably be sat in a two bedroomed house in a not so cute part San Francisco with a kid and an alcohol problem right about now."

"And, you never would have met me? Right?" Santana winks, and Quinn pouts. "Kudos to New York Rachel. What did your mom actually say?"

"Santana, you've met my mom. She was probably 'nibbling on the devil's lettuce', or something. She just nodded and went back to making some stained glass windows, or whatever the project was that particular day. She wasn't particularly bothered, I don't think. I'm sure she had her times back in the 70's…"

Santana laughs, but it doesn't really reach her eyes. She starts tapping her foot, and Quinn can feel it under the desk. She treads carefully. "San…"

"What?" comes the reply, quiet in the bustling library.

"What – hypothetically – would your mom and dad say if, like, you know… they knew that you'd slept –"

Santana's voice is still quiet, and her laugh somewhat hollow. "With a girl?"

Quinn nods, her eyes wide and sympathetic.

"I really, really don't fucking know. My mom would probably be okay once she got over her Catholic guilt, we're pretty much kindred spirits… but my dad is a complete penjedo. He'd probably get really confused about how an exhibit of perfection such as himself could possibly spawn someone who's not normal, then throw something at me and tell me there's help available for a condition such as mine," she says bitterly, her words dripping with sarcasm, her face hardening.

Quinn presses on. "What's your condition?"

Santana shrugs, diverting her gaze. "I don't know. I guess I find some girls hot, that's my fucking condition."

Intuition tells Quinn to drop it, and it would probably be wisest to drop it permanently. "You do know there's nothing wrong with that –"

"Of course I know that," Santana bites, looking at Quinn scathingly. "It's just irrelevant. Just because you're an aspiring rug-muncher –"

"Santana –"

"- and I love the cock, it doesn't mean you have to fucking go on about it all the time," her voice rises, and Quinn just nods and slides around the table, placing a comforting hand on Santana's leg. "I don't want to talk about it, Quinn."

"You're not –"

"Alone, yeah. Whatever. Do me a favour and shut the fuck up, please, Q." She presses two fingers into each of her temples and presses hard, closing her eyes.

Quinn doesn't move, needing Santana to know that she doesn't plan on doing so any time soon.

"Can we go and get something to eat? I'm fucking starving," the brunette says finally, lifting an eyelid.

"Sure," Quinn says. "Let me just finish my email to Rachel. I thought you were meeting up with that guy for lunch?"

Santana sits up in her chair, her hand flying to her phone in her pocket. "Shit, yeah. Oh, shit! He'll be pissed," she stands up, bringing her mobile to her ear and waiting for someone to pick up. "Hey, yeah, Puck? It's me, Santana. Yeah, I know I was supposed to be there half an hour ago. Of course I'm not pissed at you for leaving; it was me who didn't show. Yeah, I just lost track of time. Studying, and shit. Well, because I want a degree. I'm sorry." She giggles, and Quinn can tell it's fake. "Well… No, I'll have to see. Well, I can't do _that_," she giggles again, and Quinn winces. "Right, okay. See you later. Bye, sorry, again. See you later. Bye,"

She disconnects the call and her voice drops a couple of octaves to its usual biting rasp. "I'm free for you, baby. He didn't mind."

"Wow," Quinn comments, packing up her books and slamming her laptop shut. "You must be pretty charming." She resists the urge to make a comment about the guy Santana just let down, and how he's a notorious player who hangs around on campus despite not attending the university.

"I am incredibly charming. Do you want to share a vegetarian lasagne at Manic Organic?"

Quinn does a quick double-take. "Wait, what? Are you serious?"

Santana bursts out laughing. "Of course not. That shit's disgusting. We'll go to a coffee shop and get some paninis, deal? You pay."

"Shit, you better watch that charm. I won't be able to control myself. I'll have you right here, right now," Quinn chuckles, slinging her bag over her shoulders.

"Lay off the charm. It got you, didn't it?"

Santana winks. As they leave the library, they both glance over to the spot in the corner beside the psychology section and share a look.

* * *

Over the course of the next month, Quinn has a lot of psychology essays to do. Santana has a lot of sociology essays to do. They spend a lot of time in their section after the main library has closed, and not a lot of time talking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Aftersex**

_'You do know this is just casual, right? I'm not into girls, I just like my pussy licked. And you like to lick it. That's our dynamic, no more, no less.'_

_AU: Santana and Quinn are college roommates with a bizarre sexual dynamic. Inspired by/an elaboration upon Nikki and Kat's story in the 2007 film After Sex._

* * *

"Oh, my gosh! Brody was saying something about that, just the other day! He likes politics too, you know. People always say how the dancers and the singers are just so out of touch with current-affairs; they always say how we exist merely in our own personal bubble of glitter and Broadway, but it's completely unfounded. We've spoken about it many a time before, at the NYADA karaoke nights. Have I mentioned them?" Rachel pauses for breath and blows on her third cappuccino, looking expectantly at Quinn.

Quinn chuckles, and Rachel beams back. "Yes, Rach, you did. With the –"

"Red piano, yes! The red piano!"

Quinn smiles and stirs her herbal tea and listens, letting Rachel's excited stories wash over her, making appropriate sounds and faces when she feels the time is right. She has missed her, of course she has; but she hasn't missed Rachel's ability to talk both at one hundred miles an hour and with too many words. Her mind drifts to what Santana would have to say, and she stifles a laugh.

"Rach, Rach, Rach. How was the wedding?" Quinn interrupts Rachel like she always has to, and the brunette's neck snaps comically as her mind flips over and a new thought and talking path is wrought.

"It was beautiful, thank you very much. I sung for them, though it went much underappreciated. I thought I'd give them my very best and most heartfelt performance, and it's not my fault that this happens to be from a scene in a musical wherein the hero-type character is shot." Quinn laughs, and Rachel grins, sipping at her coffee. She's almost done. "Quinn, I hope you know that I've only met Laura once or twice in the past. I didn't come home just for my cousins wedding, and not just to see my fathers' new conservatory. It's very brightly coloured and very crystalline, by the way. Apparently it's the talk of Sonama County." She rolls her eyes. "You know how daddy Leroy is prone to exaggeration. Anyway, yes. I came home for you, too."

Quinn drinks a little of her pink coloured herbal tea before answering. "I was hoping you'd come to visit soon, actually. I've missed you, Rach," she admits, tipping her head to the side and finding Rachel's eyes over the coffee table.

"I've missed you too. I've just been so caught up with school and Brody and –" Rachel starts talking incredibly fast, blinking and nodding her head like a Scotty dog.

To her surprise, Quinn actually giggles, running a hand through her hair; the picture of carelessness. "Rachel, don't! We're best friends, and Brody sounds really nice. I actually wanted to ask you about something like –"

"Oh, did I tell you about my advice column? Blaine and I were being the empathetic individuals we are one night last week, and we decided to start an agony aunt blog. We thought it was just time to give back, you know?" Rachel gushes once more, like the doors to a great dam of insight have just been thrown open. Quinn's mouth drops open in extravagant disbelief, and she shakes her head from side to side emphatically. Rachel shoots her a questioning look.

"Rachel Barbra Berry. Listen to me." Rachel mimes zipping up her mouth and locking the corner. She gives to key to Quinn, who swallows it. They've done it since they were eight. "I need your advice. It's this girl –"

"Girl! Oh, Quinn!" Rachel's hands fly to her heart and Quinn ignores her theatricality.

"Rach, shut up," Quinn says good-naturedly. "I have not returned your key. Yeah, so there's this girl. And she's so hot and funny and intelligent and perfect, but the thing is –"

Rachel gasps. "She's a devout Christian!"

"No, no, she's –"

"She's a member of the KKK!"

"No, Rach, it's just that she's sort of –"

"Frigid?" Rachel asks, mulling it over in her head, her eyes darting around in thought.

"No, we've slept together. But that's not relevant, because she's –"

Rachel gasps, again. So loudly that the other people enjoying a quiet coffee steal judgmental glances at the incredibly flamboyant woman in the little red dress. "Quinn! You mean to tell me you've slept with somebody with whom you're not in a relationship with?"

"Rachel, stop! The problem is that she's in complete denial of the fact that she's a lesbian."

Rachel relaxes and leans back in her seat, contemplating. "Oh," she says finally, and Quinn laughs. "Oh. You're sure she's a lesbian?"

"Yeah, and she knows it too –"

"Were you friends with benefits, like?" Rachel asks, feigning nonchalance, her fingers tapping agitatedly on the sides of her empty coffee cup.

"Rach, you don't have to try and hide your disapproval. You probably would have done the same, had you met this girl first…" Quinn sighs, and laments her own damn poor luck. "I just don't know what to do. She's kind of – not a bitch, but kind of like – blunt and sharp at the same time, and it's not really an option to try and help her out with the whole gay thing. She has to come to terms with it on her own time, but I don't want to hide what we have…"

Rachel pauses, thinking. "Quinn, could it be possible that your relationship genuinely just represents sex… for her? You are good. Like, in bed."

"It was at first, I think. But now, it's different, you know? We actually talk, about everything, and she's just so goddamned perfect, you know?" Quinn moons, her pupils dilating. "And thanks." She winks.

"You can't talk about everything if you don't talk about the two of you," Rachel points out, screwing her face up a little. She's confused at the change she's seeing in Quinn.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Quinn says impatiently, frustrated that Rachel's not getting it. "It's just –"

"Quinn, let me explain. You can't look me, your oldest friend, in the eye, and tell me this is healthy, can you? You either need to talk it out with this girl –"

"Santana."

"Or give it all up altogether," she pauses for dramatic effect. "You know I'm right. You're only going to get hurt, Quinn. Unless she's willing to accept herself and you, I don't believe you should continue sleeping with her and being with her in all manners other than officially."

"Fuck you, Rach," Quinn says, launching herself over the table at the narrow shoulders of her oldest friend, pulling her in for an enormous hug. "Why'd you have to be right all the time?"

Rachel shrugs, hugging Quinn back, harder. "It's a gift. Now, come shopping with me. I'm only in town for another two days, and I bet you have to get back to campus soon."

"Of course."

They link arms and leave, and Quinn promises Rachel that she'll try and talk it all out with Santana.

* * *

"What's up, babe?"

Santana lies cold and sad in Puck's bed, her arms prickling with goosebumps. It almost makes her sick to think that they might not just be because Puck hasn't paid his gas bills.

"Nothing. I'm just tired –"

Puck yawns, scratching his head and placing a lazy arm over her shoulders. "Don't bullshit me, Santana. You're not into it; you haven't been for a few weeks now. What's up?"

"Nothing. I have a lot of work, Noah. I'm doing a law degree at Stanford. While I understand it's not quite as stressful as running a high-end pool cleaning business –"

"Santana, don't get bitchy with me. I'm trying to help. We're friends, right? We have been since you got here. It's almost a year," he pauses, feeling her wince under his heavy hand. "You're the female version of me. I'm pretty sure, whatever it is, I'll understand."

Santana snorts.

"Don't listen to the bitches in the dorms. I'm not a bad guy, okay? And I care about you, right. So, lay it on me. I really doubt I'd be in any position to judge you." Puck exhales deeply, fanning his face with his hands. "Fuck me, that was the most sensitive I've been since for-fucking-ever."

"I love the way you talk," Santana spits, folding her arms over Puck's old t-shirt.

Puck groans. "Just fuck off then, Santana. I don't need you and your bullshit issues in my bed."

"I don't want to be here, Noah. I'm sorry." In a twisted way, insults have always been the only things that inspire an emotive or serious response from Santana, ever. Apart from Quinn. And she's tired of fighting, and Puck can hear it in her voice.

Puck stutters, caught a little off guard. "What?"

"I'm saying I don't want to be here. In your bed," she states, not really able to care about hurting his pride or his feelings any longer.

"Is it me?" he asks, genuine concern etched on his face.

She pauses. "No, not just you. More your genitalia."

Puck whistles lowly. "Shit, you don't pull your punches, do you?"

She just shakes her head, unwelcome tears pooling in her eyes. Puck pulls her closer, and she relaxes a little in the arms of somebody stronger than herself.

"So, you're gay?"

She doesn't answer.

"Fuck, Santana. I'm so sorry –"

"No, it's nothing to do with you, fuckwit," she laughs at the very thought, and Puck smiles at her smile. He is a good guy, at heart.

"Is it your roommate?"

Santana sits up, her body suddenly rigid. "What the fuck, Noah?"

Puck reclines further, not bothering to calm her down. He stretches his arms above his head, tensing his muscles against the headboard. "I just have an inkling. Plus the mental image of you two sleeping together is a shit ton hotter than you and any of the other girls on that goddamned campus of yours."

She relents, staring at an indistinguishable point at the back of the room. "She's pretty amazing," she says quietly, as if she's scared someone will hear.

"So what are you so afraid of, huh?" Santana doesn't reply. "Oh, come on. You're not going to tell me that, but you'll admit you're gay to me, your newly appointed lesbro?"

"I'm not gay!" Santana punches the mattress, angry tears threatening to spill over with every second.

"What are you so afraid of?" Puck repeats, rubbing her arm in reassurance.

"Okay, so I'm afraid of my homophobic family. I'm afraid of what people will say – not here, but at home. There's like six thousand people who hail from Shitville, Shitstate as I do, and there's probably about twenty who don't believe the gays should be burnt at the stake, myself included. I'm afraid that Quinn won't want me if I tell her I want her. I'm afraid that I'll be a shitty girlfriend and I'm afraid because it's completely unchartered territory. I'm afraid because feelings are bullshit and I've never actually, you know… two feet off the ground…"

"Quinn is totally into you," is all Puck can offer, because he might be a nice guy but he's definitely not a sentimental guy and he definitely can't comfort Santana in the way she needs.

"Thanks," Santana says scathingly, and she closes her eyes with a sigh.

"I mean it."

"She's gone out with her ex to the city today. Her ex who's basically New York Wonder Girl, her ex who she's basically been in love with for the past ten years, her personal version of that ex who totally screws you over and ruins all of your future relationships," Santana attempts a rant, but her voice cracks and the strain shows.

Puck takes his position as the rant board very seriously. "Does she know you actually like her like that? Like her more than a tongue and a few fingers?"

"Noah, don't be disgusting. No, she doesn't. In case you hadn't realised, nobody wants me and my bullshit issues in their bed."

"Santana… She won't wait forever, you know."

She shakes her head, leaning into his chest. "Thank you, Noah. And I know she won't, that's something I'm afraid of. Seriously, thank you. And I'm sorry, for you know…"

"Completely wasting my time?" he jokes, pausing abruptly after he speaks, debating whether or not it's too soon.

To his relief, she giggles. "Yeah, that."

"Promise me something?"

"What?"

"You'll go get your girl. Then you'll hook up. Then you'll call me, and you won't object when I arrive with my camera –"

Santana slaps him on the stomach, and he pretends to wince.

"Am I the best lesbro ever?" He grins goofily, prodding her shoulder blade.

"You're okay," Santana replies slowly, smiling.

* * *

When Santana walks into their apartment, she drops her purse and swears as the contents spill all over the floor. She drops it because she walks in to see Quinn preening in front of the mirror, flexing her left hand and admiring a ring placed delicately on her third finger.

Santana sees red.

"What the fuck, Quinn?" she storms in, kicking her shoes off and knocking over a bowl of potpourri.

"My potpourri –" Quinn protests, wheeling round at the sound of the ruckus.

"Screw your goddamn potpourri, Quinn. Why the fuck are you –"

"What's the matter with you, Santana?" Quinn shouts back, unaware of what they're arguing about but rising to it admirably.

"Why the fuck are you engaged to that midget psychopath?" Santana all but screams, pointing at Quinn's hand and shaking her own fist with rage. "What the actual fuck? I thought you were over her!"

"Santana –" Quinn tries, attempting in vain to stop herself from smiling.

"Don't you dare smile at me, Quinn Fabray! You, with all your bullshit about fucking acceptance and how I'm not goddamn alone when really, you couldn't wait to be rid of me! Does she have an apartment waiting on the east coast? Are you going to live in Tribeca with all the other hip lesbians? Are you going to travel upstate when you want to play some motherfucking golf?" she snarls, her words dripping with venom as she gesticulates wildly in the middle of the room.

"Santana!" Quinn reddens, and the tips of her ears get hotter with every word from the Latina's mouth. "You don't get to talk about her like that! You don't even know her," she laughs unsmilingly, feeling herself getting mad. She doesn't often get angry, and she likes to think it balances the energies in their apartment. "Fuck, do you even know me? I am over her, Santana, and I'm not fucking engaged to her. For someone so smart, you can be so – fucking – stupid sometimes, I swear to God." She palms herself on the forehead for emphasis. "I bought myself this ring from Tiffany's in San Francisco because I sold some of my paintings. I can't believe you'd think I'd just get engaged to the woman I'm not in love with, just like that!"

Santana's face pales, and her haughty stance recoils immediately. She turns around and heads towards the kitchen, murmuring a soft 'oh' and shaking her head. "Sorry, Q…"

Quinn's wound up now, though; and she follows her into the kitchen, grabbing Santana's arm to force her to face her, looking into her eyes. Quinn's sparkle with unfamiliar fury and Santana's with uncertainty.

"And what the fuck does it matter to you, anyway?" She laughs, empty and hollow, almost mirthlessly. Santana stands, still and frozen, not even able to muster her mouth into action. Quinn never shouts. "Because I'm not sure, but someone told me that if you're told something twenty eight times then it's not true; and you must have told me over fifty times that you're not gay. Fuck, that you're not even into girls at all. Let alone me. So why the fuck is it not okay for me to get engaged to my exes? You're the one who's fucking around with everything that moves."

Speaking of which, Santana physically can't. It's as if she's being literally restrained by Quinn's words as they form chains around her.

"People talk, you know, Santana. I know you were at Puck's today, and yesterday, and the day before. Why is everything such a goddamn double-standard with you? If you're not gay and you can sleep with other people, then why can I not talk about Rachel without you getting all het up and doing that sexually frustrated thing with your leg? I'm sick and fucking tired of it, Santana. You make everything so, so, so hard; and everything hurts one hundred times more because of you."

Quinn has tears in her eyes and so does Santana. As they focus on one another, Quinn's chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion and Santana's breathing shallow, something changes.

"I'm gay," Santana whispers, her mouth popping open in a perfect 'oh' shape. "I'm gay," she says again, her voice stronger.

Quinn feels her anger dissipate as fast as it rose within her. "Is that the first time you've ever said that?"

"Yeah."

"I'm honoured. And I'm sorry, San –"

Santana dismisses her with a wave of her hand. "Don't be. I deserved it. And it was incredibly fucking hot. You should shout at me more often."

Quinn blushes. "You know what else was hot?"

"What?" Santana looks at the ground, scuffing her heel against the patchwork rug.

"You, being all jealous of Rachel. I kind of think that's the most turned on I've ever been while receiving demoralising insults –"

Santana's lips crash against Quinn's with the salt of tears and the tang of cherry lipgloss. "Oh –" she mumbles, her hands fumbling around Santana's waist as she's pushed back into a decorated totem pole.

"One last thing. Though you'd have to be a fucking idiot not to have guessed already," Santana says, her fingers on Quinn's lips. Quinn stares, wide-eyed and spirited. "I like you, Q."

"I like you too, S. And I know that was hard for you to say, and I just want you to know –"

"I'm trying, Quinn. I don't want to keep you waiting."

"Don't worry. You have a lot of shit to work through. I'll be here, sat on our couch, if you need any help." Quinn smiles into Santana's mouth, and the brunette feels herself start to cry, again.

"Fucking feelings," she curses, wiping her eyes furiously and stamping her foot.

Quinn tangles her fingers in Santana's hair, her lips plastered to Santana's own, and Santana feels her legs jolt beneath her as they turn to jelly.

They waste no time throwing their clothes all around their cluttered apartment, feeling the rush and joy of one another's kisses for what it is, for the first time in the six months they've been sleeping together. And as night falls through the bay windows and the stars appear in the sky, Santana finally realises the difference between making love and fucking.

She finally realises what it feels like to have somebody you sort of love with their head between your legs, and not somebody who's there. She finally understands what it feels like to watch the face of somebody you sort of love tense and relax in ecstasy purely because of you, and not somebody who you're just curious about. With a mouthful of Quinn's breast and Quinn against the kitchen wall and on the kitchen table, she finally appreciates the female form like she's never been able to without relentless self-beration before. With Quinn buried inside her and her neck bruising in the shape of Quinn's perfect mouth, she finally understands what passion really means.

Quinn feels it too. In the pit of her stomach, a longing for the woman who lies underneath her, kissing her back and meaning it. It's fucking brilliant, and any vestige of past lovers left upon her skin vanishes with every touch from Santana, every suck, every bite. Every trail her tongue blazes down Quinn's chest and stomach and down, down, down.

They collapse into Quinn's bed three hours later, panting and sweating and holding one another's hands.

"What the fuck are we going to do now?" Santana breathes into the dark enveloping silence, pausing for an answer.

"Why the fuck are you asking me?" Quinn giggles, her face turning into Santana's shoulder, her body shaking uncontrollably with laughter.

Santana joins her, and she whispers the word 'together' into Quinn's ear as they laugh.

"Together. We'll do it together."


End file.
